


Tongue Tied

by provocative_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: Viktor’s, Ron reads, his lips puckering in a frown that’s more suspicious than bemused.





	Tongue Tied

**Author's Note:**

> written for my [rare pair march madness tournament](http://provocative-envy.tumblr.com/post/183852173032/results) & based on [this short summary](http://provocative-envy.tumblr.com/post/183681899547/tongue-tied-ron-weasley-x-viktor-krum-after)

* * *

 

At first, Ron just thinks he’s being stupid.

Irrational.

_Paranoid_.

He doesn’t have any _proof_ that he has a stalker. Or a secret admirer. Or—whatever. The free coffee is because the baristas need to practice their garden-themed latte art, and the daily boxes of Eastern European pastries that are always delivered right before Ron’s shifts start are probably just a wrong address, and the parking spot thing—well, that isn’t that weird, really. There are a dozen perfectly reasonable explanations for how and why the only stretch of legal street parking in a ten-block radius with _any_ regular shade from the sun has suddenly, seemingly overnight, become readily available whenever he shows up for work.

And, like.

Ron had been _aware_ of the empty storefront around the corner, of the dusty windows and the crumbling red brick walls and the dangerous knot of exposed electrical wires dangling from the ceiling; but he hadn’t really paid attention to it. He hadn’t really _noticed_ it.

Which is why the sign—fresh, new, unfamiliar—surprises him so much.

_Viktor’s_ , Ron reads, his lips puckering in a frown that’s more suspicious than bemused.

The sign itself is pretty fucking adorable, actually, delicate white curlicue lettering against a pale pink backdrop, vibrantly painted vines of ivy scrolling along the edges and around the cast-iron hooks affixing it to the striped yellow awning. There’s a riotously colorful assortment of flowers scattered behind the front window glass, sunset-orange roses and bright blue peonies and terrifyingly purple orchids, stacks of terra cotta pots on glazed ombre saucers, spangled silver pinwheels and rustic wooden planter boxes with miniature chalkboard labels—thyme, rosemary, mint and oregano and marjoram.

A flower shop.

A _florist_.

Ron chews the last bite of his breakfast burrito, not really tasting it, and then methodically balls up the aluminum foil wrapper and tosses it in a nearby trashcan.

The tiny brass bell above the door tinkles cheerfully when he steps inside.

The shop is boutique-sized, long and narrow, with a maze of refrigerated display cases crisscrossing the smooth cement floor. Everything smells damp and vaguely earthy, and the gentle mechanical whir of a fan is audible from beneath a large cedar work table that appears to be doubling as a counter for a charming antique cash register.

“Can I help you?” A deep, gravelly, heavily accented voice calls out from the back room. “Just—hold on, please, one moment—”

Ron glances up just as the owner of that voice pushes through a fluttering curtain of glossy gray PVC strips.

And—

Okay.

_Okay_.

This guy is _huge_ , like, six-foot- _fuck him_ with wide shoulders and narrow hips and the kind of muscles that look like they require more regular maintenance than Ron’s 26-year old pickup truck; and Ron dimly, almost hysterically, catalogues sallow skin and sharp features and clusters of jewel-toned tattoos peeking out from under a criminally tight v-neck, a square jaw and an unimpressed scowl and a frankly ridiculous pair of thick, bushy eyebrows—

He’s wearing an apron.

He’s holding a strangely delicate bunch of blood-red daisies.

He’s studying Ron with an expression that’s a little difficult to pin down—confusion and panic and excitement and _worry_ —and he’s obviously waiting for Ron to _speak_.

“Hi,” Ron blurts out, dry-mouthed and very, very uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—what he was even _looking_ for—but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. “I’m—what’s your name?”

The guy’s gaze—dark, intense, _magnetic_ —darts over to the front door, where the sign is hanging. “I am Viktor.”

Ron clears his throat, cheeks warming. “Right. Sure. That’s—okay. Well, uh, I’m Ron. Ron Weasley. I work—over there? At my brothers’ place? They do, like, tattoos. Piercings.” He forces out a laugh. “You look like you probably know a thing or two more about both of those things than I do, though, right?”

Viktor doesn’t blink. “I know, yes.”

“What?”

“Your name,” Viktor hurries to add, transferring the daisies to his other hand, shaking out his fingers like he’d been gripping them too tightly. “I meant—I know your name. I saw—I asked—your brothers? They told me?”

Ron swallows. “Is that—a question?”

“Is what?”

“Just, you sounded like—” Ron breaks off, gaze catching on two huge, industrial orange, _extremely_ out-of-place traffic cones. They’re circled with twin bands of reflective silver tape, glittering in the overhead light. “Wait.”

Viktor waits, unblinking.

“Why do you . . .” Ron trails off, mouth hanging open as he connects the dots. The traffic cones. The _flowers_ on the goddamn latte art. The heat in his cheeks is practically fucking volcanic, at this point. “Holy shit, you made me a mixtape.”

Viktor’s lips part. Twitch. Sullenly compress into a thin white line.

“And you always—the baklava, and the Cannons shirt, and— _the parking spot_ ,” Ron goes on, aghast. “And the _rose petals_ in the _bath bombs_ —George is a fucking _liar_ , that gift basket was _not_ for everyone!”

Viktor just stares at Ron some more, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his very firm, very broad chest.

“Dude,” Ron says, a little accusingly. “Have you been _courting_ me?”

Viktor pauses. “Not . . . exactly?”

“There you fucking go again with the _not-questions_ ,” Ron mutters. “What does—”

“I saw you,” Viktor interrupts, “the day I signed the lease here, and I—well, I went to ask your brothers if you were, ah—unattached?” Viktor mouths something to himself, like he’s trying to translate from a different language. “Single. If you were single. And they said—”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Ron groans, tilting his head back to squint manfully up at the ceiling. “I do not want to know what they said. Please. Don’t tell me.”

“They said you were very upset about, ah, an exam?” Viktor winces, scratching at the back of his neck. His bicep flexes with the movement, and Ron faintly wonders how he’s supposed to even concentrate right now. On anything. On—whatever. “I didn’t want to be a bother. To bother you. I wanted you to be . . . better. Not upset. Before I—tried.”

At that, Ron’s heartbeat kind of awkwardly stutters to a halt. “Oh.”

Viktor grimaces. “Yes. Oh.”

Ron allows himself another long, lingering glance at Viktor’s arms. Shoulders. Jawline. “What did you, uh. What did you want to try?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted me to be—not upset? Anymore? Before you _tried_.” Ron hesitates, steeling his spine and gritting his teeth and meeting Viktor’s eyes. “What did you— _do_ you want to try?”

Viktor doesn’t immediately, physically, visibly react—

But when he finally does, it’s with a smile.

A slow, sly, exceedingly unfair smile.

“A shorter answer,” Viktor says, carefully placing the daisies on the table between them, “would be what I _don’t_ want to try with you.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
